In Which Tintin Is Overtaken With A Syndrome
by DoubleDecks
Summary: GEN/Crack!Fic - Tintin is a young man - or at least he was, last time he checked. So...why is there suddenly a monthly visitor knocking at his door? Note: No actual menstruation, T for language
1. The Irreprehensible Intimidator

**IN WHICH TINTIN IS OVERTAKEN WITH A SYNDROME**

* * *

**__**_From his betaking himself to this humble quarter, it was evident that, as a deck-passenger, the stranger, simple though he seemed, was not entirely ignorant of his place, though his taking a deck-passage might have been partly for convenience; as, from his having no luggage, it was probable that his destination was-_

"No, I don't -_ WANT_...that."

Captain Haddock glanced up from his tattered copy of_ The Confidence Man_ just in time to see Tintin thrust a very generous offering of chocolate-dipped orange Madeleines back into Nestor's chest, coming dangerously close to tipping the tray onto the man's pristine white shirt completely.

"Goodness," Tintin said at once, and an expression of sincere apology befell him. "Nestor, I..."

He paused. "...actually..._ wait_..."

The boy sat in contemplation tersely before electing to take one.

Or two.

Or..._several_. Haddock lifted his eyebrows as the lad grasped them all in his small milky hands unceremoniously, not bothering to take a plate.

"Are you _quite finished_, Master Tintin?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tintin snapped defensively, looking the other man over with an appalled contempt that reminded Nestor a little too much of Sakharine for his liking.

"I didn't mean anything by it, sir." Nestor responded in his usual sober vein.

Tintin huffed, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment while he took a deep breath through his nose as if attempting to suppress something very ugly and very imminent. It was a strange thing for Haddock to behold, watching him sit with his legs folded in the large rouge living chair, eyes closed and holding a plentiful pile of Madelines in his hands like some sort of cookie deity.

Perhaps it was just something in the air. A storm brewing on the horizon, possibly. Haddock hummed contentedly and returned to his book.

_- it was probable that his destination was one of the small wayside landings within a few hours' sail. But, though he might not have a long way to go, yet he seemed already to have come from a very long distance._

_Though neither soiled nor slovenly, his cream-colored suit had a tossed look, almost linty, as if, traveling night and day from some far country beyond the prairies, he had long been without the solace of a bed. His aspect was at once gentle and jaded -_

"You mustn't - you don't need to _stand_ there, you know. And watch me."

Tintin's attempt at remedying his irritation appeared to have done nothing, much to Haddock's contempt, for the ginger had opened his eyes and immediately returned to looking as if he had taken a nap on a bed of splinters.

"Where would you have me be, sir?" Nestor inquired, unaffected.

For a moment it looked as if the boy had lapsed into empathetic abandon again; his shoulders dropped and he looked a bit forlorn and lost before exasperated and furious confusion wound into his features. The whites of his eyes shone large as he cried, "I DON'T...KNOW...just..." He waved his arm. "..._go away? Maybe?_" A few Madeleines dropped onto his lap, having spilled over the top of the only hand now holding them. Crumbs scattered all across the front of his trousers.

"Fuck," Tintin hissed - though whether it was directed at Nestor or the crumbs Haddock was not sure - and the illicit response nonetheless echoed briskly through the room. Haddock's jaw was hanging rather slack when he finally caught Tintin's sights.

"What? Is there a problem? _Captain_?" the reporter challenged.

Tintin rolled his eyes as Nestor retreated, spinning slowly on his heels until he was facing the Captain opposite; and Haddock was only able to offer him a shrug, to which Nestor responded with a blank, "Hmm." When the butler was out of sight the Captain took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned closer to the lad, growling,

"Barbaric blabbermouths, Tintin! Have you no manners? Poor old Nestor-"

"_Shut up_," Tintin commanded, his eyes resting heavily on the Captain as he indulged in his third cookie, the first two of which he had devoured eagerly in the brief moments Nestor was taking his leave and nobody was watching him.

Haddock was positively dumbfounded for a moment, quickly putting his pipe on the endtable before his temper gave him a swift kick to the voicebox.

"Shut...up? _SHUT UP?!_ Look here, you irreprehensible intimidator, you - I-"

Whatever tirade the Captain had in store was cut short when the remaining Madeleines fell to the floor.

"Stop...yelling..." the boy whined, and before Haddock knew it Tintin was wilting into his seat and pressing his palms to his eyelids.

The Captain immediately regretted his outburst.

This was new.

Haddock had been far angrier (and louder) on several occasions and the lad had only either ignored him or fought back with his own brand of level-headed logic; but this was different, and it gutted him. _Herman Melville will have to wait for another time_, he lamented, tossing the book into his chair as he rushed to the boy's side.

"Tintin! Lad, I'm..._I'm sorry_...I...you were being a wee bit harsh with Nestor, there...I just, just lost my temper a bit..." He grasped the shivering reporter's shoulders and did his darndest to settle the boy down, though it didn't seem to be doing any good.

"Tintin, what...what's gotten into you today, boy?"

"..."

"Tintin...?"

"_Stop it_..." he heard Tintin seething miserably from behind his hands.

"Tintin, are you..." Haddock glanced about the drawing room for any sign of Nestor before whispering, "...are you _crying_?"

The Captain pulled the ginger's hands away from his face, and while Tintin refused to look at him directly Haddock could see the whites of his eyes had turned pink. He gently brushed a thumb over one of the lad's freckle-spattered cheeks to find it damp.

"Stop _looking_ at me," Tintin cried hysterically, wrenching his wrists from the older man's grip and shoving him away in one dramatic motion.

He tore down the hall faster than Haddock had seen him run during any chase.

The Captain sighed and briefly considered calling Nestor back in before resigning to kneeling down and collecting the Madeleines off the rug himself.


	2. A Cacophony of Self Loathing

There was a humble knock at the bedroom door.

It was precisely half past five in the afternoon, Tintin could see on the bedside clock from where he was lying atop the freshly-made duvet - his eyes were the only thing he cared to move at all, really, because the pain had become excruciating.

His shoes remained on. He had burst into the room only fifteen minutes previous (shouting at a very dejected Milou to _get out now_ and proceeding to theatrically hurl himself onto the mattress) only to find that his episode came to a conclusion just as quickly as it had begun, for there had started to develop an acute _tugging_in his abdomen.

He had abandoned his fit immediately, heaving a breath and placing both hands on his stomach; and as the cramp accelerated more quickly than any bellyache he'd ever had the misfortune of suffering in his entire life he had slowly begun to fold in half like a pill bug without realizing it. When the Captain finally hazarded a knock and Tintin reluctantly invited him in the boy's hands were clutching his torso, knees drawn up; brow twisted in discomfort like that of a shell-shocked soldier.

Haddock slipped into his vision with a white mug, quietly closing the door behind him; and he hovered over the chair in the corner, unsure of whether to get comfortable or prepare to bolt in the event of another tantrum. Tintin's eyes followed him forlornly and the Captain placed the cup beside the alarm clock, pulling the armchair over to the bedside.

The legs wailed as they ground across the hardwood floor and Tintin winced.

"Sorry," the Captain said sheepishly, sitting down. "Are you okay? Should I call you a doctor?" he offered so gently it was nearly a whisper.

Tintin took another deep breath. "No, thank you..." His eyes fluttered open and narrowed, traveling along the moulding on the ceiling. "I'm...I apologize. For earlier. I don't - _hahhhhhhhh_-!" The boy gripped his stomach harder and grimaced.

Haddock was on his feet in an instant. "I'm calling the doctor."

"No, wait-!"

"This could be serious, lad - you're acting like I did back when my appendix jumped ship."

"I don't have mine anymore either," Tintin breathed, and Haddock seated himself again, rubbing his beard in concern. "I think I just might have eaten something bad," the boy went on to suggest.

"It'd have to be pretty bad to put you in a state like _that_," Haddock said, and Tintin solemnly reminded himself to somehow make his poor behavior up to Nestor later.

"Oh! Er - I brought you some cocoa," the Captain uttered, nudging the mug a smidge closer. "Thought it might cheer you up, though I'm beginning to think cocoa alone's not gonna fix what ails you, boy."

"Cocoa?"

"Aye. The good stuff I picked up from Leonidas at Christmastime last year, remember that? Didn't even know we still had it, it was way way far back in the cabinet and-"

The Captain yammered on as Tintin uncurled himself and shifted into a lounging position with some difficulty, wedging a pillow behind the small of his back and tentatively grasping the mug. He took a small sip and Haddock paused as the lad's entire being seemed to melt.

"Great sn-..._ahhhh_..." Tintin's eyes fell shut and he released a sigh of divine contentment, his head tipping back until it contacted the headboard with a thump.

"You're so good to me," the redhead whispered, and the Captain's face settled into a colour somewhere between mauve and crimson as he watched Tintin chug the rest of the cocoa without a second thought, seemingly impervious to the fact that it was near-scalding.

- - -

"WHY ARE YOU SO_ FUCKING TERRIBLE_?!" the reporter shrieked at the Captain.

"ME? WHAT DID I DO? NESTOR, YOU SAW ME! WHAT DID I DO? I WALKED IN THE DOOR, AND-"

"I'M TRYING TO WORK AND _YOU KEEP COMING IN HERE_!"

Nestor put his arms up in surrender as if to say "I'm not touching this," and slipped out through the dining hall archway, luggage in hand. It had been four weeks since Tintin's 'incident' in the drawing room, and the boy had since gone to great lengths to make amends for it - even going so far as to work a paid vacation into the butler's schedule, which Nestor was presently leaving for in the midst of the shouting match the Captain had supposedly triggered by simply walking through a door.

"WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR WRITING IN THE BLASTED DINING HALL? _YOU HAVE A ROOM_!"

"I NEEDED MORE _SUNLIGHT_!" Tintin screamed. "IT'S SO DULL IN THERE! AND THEN I COME OUT HERE AND YOU'RE BEING FUCKING _DISTRACTING_!" Such an accusation in the spacious mansion would have been damn near comical to Haddock if he already weren't so riled.

"THERE'S PLENTY OF - wait - wait, what is _that_?"

"Nothing," Tintin blurted, struggling very obviously to close something and usher it behind the typewriter.

"When did you get gelato?!"

"After we-" Tintin's head dropped solemnly.

"...went out for ice cream," the Captain said. "Wha- that's what I was waiting outside the shop for?"

"Well it's nearly melted now!" Tintin fired back regretfully. "If you hadn't disappeared into the tobacco shop when I told you to wait-"

"What'd you need gelato for after having a _three-scoop cone_?!"

"You think I'm becoming sedentary, don't you?"

"What?"

"Oh, I'm very aware," Tintin sneered, "that my trousers are sitting a bit snugger these days, and nobody sees fit to tell me because you all just pity me!"

Haddock gripped his hair in both hands at a complete loss. The boy still looked svelte, from the top of his red tuft down to the toes of his polished shoes...only slightly softer around the edges, the Captain did have to admit - but, still, there was no contest to be had!

"Well, look at _me_!" Haddock demanded, tugging up his sweater and slapping his belly. "Look at that! You're nowhere near where I am!"

"Why are we so_ horrible_?!" Tintin cried, and then something incredible happened. The Captain wasn't sure how the two of them ended up lying on the floor. And yet suddenly there they were, wallowing in their own separate miserable little worlds, making invisible snow-angels of violent and wanton resentment like two children who didn't want to leave a candy store.

"_My gut_," Haddock wailed.

"_My trousers_," Tintin wailed.

"_My old man_," Haddock blubbered.

"_At least you had parents_!" Tintin shouted.

Their cacophony of collaborative self-loathing continued for several minutes and was only interrupted by the sound of a black leather bag being placed on the dining table.

"Oh my," Cuthbert Calculus said, leaning over the two sobbing men and adjusting his spectacles. "I must say this is not working out as I'd hoped."


	3. Deadly Waffles

"Pre-ma-who-_da-whatsis now_?!" Haddock shouted.

"You _what_?!" Tintin shrieked, his face wrenching into an expression of pure horror and disgust.

"What, what did he do?" Haddock looked between Tintin and the professor wildly at a complete loss, though the voluminous anger in his voice did not falter.

"You know, I did!" Calculus replied, calmly using an eyedropper to deposit several drips of green liquid into a small beaker of clear fluid. "I do hope there is a rerun tomorrow afternoon, thank you for reminding me!"

"This isn't - this is not...right..." Tintin whined, looking very discouraged and vacant as his sensitive chemistry threatened once again to well moisture in his eyes. Haddock watched as the boy self-consciously pulled the collar of his sweater up over his face, and it was enough to make his heart wrench.

"Just what in the blazes _have you done to him, Cuthbert_?!"

"Why would I contact the Guggenheim about this? It is a privately financed project, for Madame Castafiore."

"_Castafiore_?" Haddock said through gritted teeth, and Tintin's breath hitched ever so slightly from behind the fabric as he tried in earnest not to break down in tears.

"Miss Castafiore, the poor woman, she suffers from the most dreadful bouts of discomfort," Calculus remarked, turning on a burner. "So I created a remarkable little pill that -"

"-_turned Tintin into a tempestuous triptych of_-"

"Captain, please..." Tintin half-implored, half sobbed; quietly - and Haddock settled back into his seat, hands wringing idly into fists.

"-well no," Calculus continued, "but I think it may be the cause for Tintin's behavior."

Haddock placed a hand over his mouth in aggravation and Tintin allowed his sweater to drop, managing to spare a few encouraging pats on his friend's shoulder even though his own eyes were becoming miserably puffy.

"I do apologize for the using you as a guinea pig, dear boy," said the professor, "but Miss Castafiore is touring and told me that Irma would be too busy attending to her to test the concoction! It was intended to relieve her troubles, but it seems as if it may only make them worse - or it has quite the opposite effect on young men."

"But how could you do this to me?!" Tintin cried out abruptly, albeit not as loudly, though the Captain still jumped in surprise. The gears in the seadog's head suddenly began to turn.

"Wait - wait, you mean like, he - you've given him the _lass's curse_? You mean he -"

"Why, that's preposterous, Captain." Calculus held his hand up as he turned off the burner. "Our dear Tintin will not have to go purse shopping at all - unless he fancies so, I suppose - but I have only altered his hormone chemistry, not his biology."

"W- so you-" the Captain turned to the reporter, who had now substituted his sweater collar for his hands and begun breathing deeply into them. "You don't..."

"No, I haven't literally...you know," Tintin replied staunchly; and Haddock sighed, though it was only partially out of relief, before Calculus said something that made their ears perk up immediately.

"Here, this should help," he announced, and as he approached Tintin with the beaker Haddock tucked one arm beneath the other and wiped his brow, glad to see the end of this nightmare.

"Now, on its own the concoction should work itself out of your system over the course of several months," the professor said. "However, this should induce it to leave your body sooner."

He watched as Tintin swiped it from him and drank it without argument, brow furrowing as he processed the odd taste.

"Good," Haddock sniffed. "Then we can be done with this business, yes?"

"It should take about two weeks," Calculus said, retrieving his beaker delicately as it was handed back to him, "But I will warn you, it is no easy task trying to rush along the natural process of things...matters are going to get much, much worse before they get better."

Haddock shot up straight in his seat.

"_Worse_? Than_ this_?"

- - -

"I'm ordering room service," Tintin declared.

"Okay," Haddock said as neutrally as he could, shutting the door quietly behind them and gently placing his coat onto his bed. It had been 12 days since the 'antidote' had been administered but instead of fate seeing Haddock at Moulinsart; providing anything the boy could have asked for and helping him through what was supposed to be an uneventful recovery, it saw them both in Istanbul apprehending a bomb plot.

"_I'm not an invalid_," Tintin had remarked quite callously, and so Haddock found himself having to walk on eggshells everywhere he went (literally and figuratively, for Calculus was right - the night was getting darkest before the dawn, if the casualty of a pan of bacon and an entire carton of eggs before their departure were any indication); and he hoped and prayed the boy's condition would not land them in more trouble than they had bargained for, which was already quite a lot.

Up until this point he felt he had done a fine job, considering that those poignant moments Tintin used to display any sort of remorse for his actions were now completely absent, and the boy had become a great deal fussier over _everything_ - most of all his personal appearance. Though quickly shed were the few pounds his previous cycles had brought, his face had how erupted into an..._interesting_ array of blemishes and little marks; and, after having shelled out a good deal of money for the replacement of an antique mirror at their last hotel, Haddock was relieved to find that the washroom at this particular one was nowhere near as luxurious.

"My legs are killing me and if I don't get a waffle right this very instant there's a fine possibility that I may see fit to kill somebody," the reporter commented, steeling the Captain away from his thoughts.

"...which would be me," Haddock said grimly.

"I don't see anyone else," Tintin said without the bat of an eye or a ghost of a smile, already cradling the telephone between his shoulder and head as Milou yipped and hopped onto the duvet. "Yes, hello? I'd like to get room service please. 206. Tin? Ok. I'll have a uh..." He chewed on his thumbnail as he studied the menu. "...I'll have a garlic pide, chicken kebab...an order of baklava...ah, what is er, a '_sultan_'? Ah. Ah. I see. Yes, one of those, please. Oh, and uh, sort of an odd question...do you have waffles?"

The Captain looked up from his suitcase to see Tintin's eyes narrow in the yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

"I see."

There was a darkness in his voice, and the older man recognized it right away.

"Only for breakfast, you say."

At once Haddock was overtaken with flashbacks of their ride from the airport.

He remembered struggling to drag the boy away from a cafe so they wouldn't miss their train, and the rather sound verbal lashing he received.

Fruitlessly stuffing case upon folded jacket upon pillow beneath Tintin's legs and back and head in an attempt to help the aching reporter get comfortable...

He recalled the lad bursting into tears and then simply pretending nothing had happened, excitedly chattering on as was his usual inclination; if not a little more overzealous than usual. Haddock had counted this phenomenon - it happened_ five times_ on the way over; once because the reporter thought he had forgotten his ticket, twice in a row because Haddock had gotten rather short with him, once because he had accidentally nipped his finger closing his carry-on, and once because Milou had barked and alarmed him.

He also remembered quite well tending to the black eye of the poor chap who had accidentally stepped on the terrier's tail as they were waiting to get off the train.

"Er, Tintin -" Haddock began, and the ginger looked at him like a hawk that had just had its nest tipped over. "How about we..." the Captain said softly, slowly tugging the menu from the younger man's hands inch by inch. The lad put up some resistance but eventually let it slide, his steely glare remaining intact. "...you just order all that, and I'll - I'll get you your waffle."

"What do you mean _all that_-" Tintin began, but the Captain was already slinging his coat back on, jovially replying, "We'll have a real smorgasbord tonight!" and the reporter's face relaxed as he watched his friend leave, waiting until the door was firmly closed before he feebly substituted a piece of pie for the waffle.

- - -

_Prepackaged waffles?_ What would they think of next? As Haddock walked down the street he did briefly pause in front of a few restaurants; for in his short experience with the lad's condition one of the things he had learned was that if something wasn't _absolutely perfect_, all hell would break loose - and so while he settled with his decision he also doubted it, crossing his chest nervously as he reached their hotel.

When he entered the lobby he could see what was in all likelihood Tintin's order being wheeled to the elevator, and he wondered how much abuse the poor page had had to put up with. The man did look rather weathered and grim, as if he had been dealing with rather unsavory treatment for years...in fact, he didn't look like he had even been afforded enough time in the morning for a proper shave, from the looks of it-

Immediately the Captain crashed to the floor, sliding behind a large potted plant and gripping his bag to keep it from crinkling.

Was that-? It couldn't be!

He took a deep breath and slipped his hat off, placing it into the bag before slicking his hair back and emerging from behind the plant, stiffly rushing to the front desk in what he hoped was a stealthy manner.

"Excuse me," he hissed, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently. "Excuse me - hey!" he grasped the clerk's sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I...I need to make an urgent call to room 206, please."

Haddock heaved a breath and turned around, stomping lightly in exasperation when the man pushed the serving cart into the elevator and disappeared; and when he was finally and reluctantly handed the telephone Tintin was already on the line.

"What is it?" the reporter demanded.

"Tintin, it's me," the Captain grumbled. "This-" he dropped his voice even lower, "-_bomb_ guy, er- Alfie...Andre..."

"Andrzejek Fronczek?"

"Yeah, whatever - _what does he look like_?"

"He's - hold on a moment, the food is here."

"Tintin-"

Haddock gripped the desk helplessly as he heard a crash on the other end of the line.


	4. A Terrible Job

Captain Haddock had not intended to break down the door; rather, that was what he told himself after he threw his full weight into it, though no other intent came to mind - nonetheless when he appeared in the room somehow holding it by the handle and completely dislodged from the entryway, he discovered Tintin kneeling behind the bed, only the very tip of his quiff visible over the horizon of the mattress. Milou was barking madly.

"Tintin!" he cried, dropping the heavy piece of wood with a sound crash. He stampeded through the mess on the carpet, flipping the already upturned food cart out of his way. "Tintin, are you okay?!"

The youth shouted back.

"All I wanted to do was _RELAX_ TONIGHT!"

Upon closer inspection the Captain found that the ginger was not shouting at him, but had in fact pinned the guilty party to the floor and was sitting on the man's chest, delivering slap after brisk slap to the man's already bloodied face.

"Tintin! Tintin, you're going to kill him! We need to call the police-!"

"WOOAH! WOOAHHHH WOOAH WOOAH!" Milou yapped.

"TONIGHT WAS FOR _RELAXING_-"

Haddock tugged the boy's arm roughly, jerking him away; and the lad quickly flung a leg out, half-successfully delivering a kick to Fronczek's stomach. The connection was still potent, as Haddock watched the latter heave in pain and scramble up against the opposite wall, a cascade of angry Polish emerging from his mouth. Tintin's own nostrils were bloody as well (though the Captain was not sure whether it was his blood or not) and there was whipped cream smeared across his cheek, powdered sugar dusting his orange hair.

The only warning Haddock was afforded was the brief flaring of the lad's nostrils before he wrestled his limbs free, lunging once more at Fronczek and resuming his strange torture. The terrorist shrieked with every slap the boy delivered, feebly attempting to guard himself.

"I ordered BAKLAVA!"

Slap.

"I ORDERED _BAKLAVA_!"

Slap.

"AND WHAT - NO, LOOK AT ME-"

Haddock watched in shock the youth grasp the criminal by the chin and force his face around.

"-we were going to come after you tomorrow. _Tomorrow_," Tintin snarled.

The Captain slowly sunk to the floor, completely aghast, and collected Milou into his arms like a little white security blanket. There was nothing more he could do, he reckoned; he also reckoned if he tried there might be three men in this hotel room with bloody noses instead of two.

"Tonight," Tintin said through his teeth, his voice trembling something fierce and shrouded in an overly-cheerful sarcasm that sent shivers down Haddock's spine, "..._tonight_ was for listening to the radio and having a snack, my friend! But you were just_ too_ _impatient_, weren't you?"

Both the terrorist and the Captain were now gazing at the boy in fear, though the Captain was infinitely thankful he was not on the receiving end of his rage.

"-you were so impatient you had to parade yourself up here with_ this_-" Tintin held up a cake-covered canister with three colored wires sticking crookedly out from the edge.

"This isn't baklava, is it, _Andrzejek_?"

Fronczek was noncompliant. The Captain jumped when the reporter smacked him across the face again.

"_IS IT_?"

"WOOAHHH! WOOAH! WOOAH WOOOAH!" Milou barked.

"Nie...nie...no, no sir."

"And you've done a terrible job," the lad went on superiorly. Haddock couldn't tell if he was beginning to cool down or if he was on the verge of another outburst. He hoped it was the former.

"Look at this," the reporter continued in contempt, "I could break this. A child could break this."

Haddock gasped and hit the deck when Tintin gathered the wires up and ripped them from the canister. The hotel remained standing. Milou whimpered beneath him.

"And your detonator is cheap and faulty," the boy said. "Any bit of interference could have interrupted it."

Fronczek's lip began to tremble.

"I could make a better bomb than this, and I'm a _fucking teenager_," Tintin asserted.

And that's when Andrzejek Fronczek burst into tears.

"Syn dziwki," Tintin uttered bitterly, standing up and kicking him in the leg.

He turned around and regarded Haddock with a pleasant grin. "Oh! When did you get here, Captain?"

- - -

Haddock tiptoed. He took his suitcase into the bathroom and clasped it shut quickly. He drew the curtain only as much as needed to find his shoes, and carefully wheeled the dessert cart - the new one that they had been graciously offered after the whole ordeal was through - into the hallway.

One of the wheels squeaked and the Captain paused and cursed under his breath when he heard a groan and the shuffling of sheets from the far bed.

"_What time is it?_"

He turned to see his companion peering at him blearily over the blanket, quiff disheveled and uneven. Milou scrambled out from beneath the duvet and wandered toward the door.

"Oh, don't worry about that, lad. You need your rest," Haddock offered, but Tintin was already out of bed and tottering slowly over to the window in his pajamas, eyes screwed beady. He pulled the curtain the rest of the way open and yawned before looking behind him, observing the room shrewdly.

"These beds are not where they were before."

"Oh. We er...they moved us to another room."

Tintin rubbed his eyes back into their normal perky state. "What happened last night? Did I...do anything? Terrible?"

Haddock nearly flipped this cart over as well in exasperation. "You...don't remember?"

"No..." Tintin said, looking a bit lost.

"Ah...we uh. Well, the perpetrator is taken care of, anyway."

"Oh," the boy responded, stroking his quiff back into submission. His eyebrows raised matter-of-factly. "Alright," he said without argument, and then, after a moment of thought, "I could use some coffee."

- - -

They gathered their bearings at the cafe across the street from the train station, and Haddock was pleased to find that Tintin readily turned the other cheek at the prospect of not being able to get his drink iced; nor was he dismayed at the avalanche of luggage that fell from an overhead compartment onto him as they boarded the train; nor did he lose his head when he had in fact forgotten his ticket this time. The Captain observed with satisfaction the boy engage the conductor in a friendly conversation, explaining to him the particulars of their rather eventful trip - soon the man's face lit up in recognition and the two amicably parted ways, the reporter being allowed to remain in his seat.

"So that's the end of that, isn't it?" Haddock pondered aloud as Tintin joined him in their compartment.

"One would hope so," Tintin said worriedly. "Look, I...I'm very sorry-"

"Don't even start," the Captain said. "You were unwell."

"I don't know if I'd call it _unwell_...I suppose half the time I was, yes...quite unwell..." Tintin looked out the window. "The other half of the time was...troublingly _empowering_, actually." He looked at the older man a bit bashfully, but hope still surged in his eyes. "But I'd rather it not return. I've hurt too many people." They shared a smile. "Do you think it will?" the boy asked.

"I suppose we won't know until next month, will we?" Haddock chuckled nervously, stroking a sleeping Milou behind the ears.

- - -

Tintin burst into Haddock's study with an abruptness that made the older man nearly fall out of his chair.

"Captain..."

"No."

Tintin nodded, his face twisted in angered discomfort.

"Billions of blistering barnacles, _again_?!"

"Captain, we need to make a trip to town. I need something strong before I wring the Professor's neck," Tintin hissed.

"This is out of order!" Haddock shouted, slamming his pen on the table. "I'm going to go put that clandestine conniver in his place! I'll-"

"_Chocolate now, talk later_!" Tintin cried. Haddock heaved a sigh, begrudgingly getting up and slinging his jacket around his shoulders. When he reached the door Tintin remained where he was.

"Well?" Haddock said, throwing his arms up. "Are we going, or-" He paused when he realized the lad was grinning.

A moment of silence passed and then it clicked. Haddock took Tintin by the shoulders and shoved him. "No!" he shouted, though a smile was also tugging the corner of his lips.

"Ah, I had you!" the boy chided, bursting into laughter and wincing as the Captain flung his hat at him. It missed the reporter's face by inches, sailing over the bannister and landing precisely on Nestor's head below, as he had overheard the discussion and was exiting the kitchen with a preemptive cup of cocoa for the distressed boy in question.

Exhaling in relief, he returned to the kitchen to enjoy it himself.


End file.
